A Lady's Touch
by That.Other.Boleyn.Girl
Summary: Holmes and Watson are oblivious. Fed up, Irene Adler decides to play match-maker. Holmes/Watson.
1. Part I: The Lady Insists

**A/N: Consider this as a sort of... Valentine's present? With Irene Adler as our darling Cupid...ess. O.o Anyway. Equal mix of light humour and seriousness, but a tad more serious than PMS. (By which I meant **_**Post-Marital Sabotage**_**, not... the hormonal one.)**

******Disclaimer:** No, it is not mine, evidently.

**Enjoy the romping, and please don't forget to review!**

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**A Lady's Touch**

0-0-0

I. The Lady Insists

The jewel was a little too large to be proper, but Irene Adler wasn't one who bothered about that.

For her, it was just the perfect size: the size of a knuckle, a great green ellipse that winked splendidly from amongst her deep brown curls. Of course, it was actually intended to be worn as a brooch; but Irene, who had never quite approved of dressing in the societal norm, had decided it would be all the more charming worn as a rather ostentatious and unexpected hair ornament.

"I don't think that trinket belongs to you, Miss Adler."

Irene leaned forward in the glass to admire it better. "If I am to believe all that I am constantly being told, Sherlock, it would seem as if I don't own anything at all."

Sherlock Holmes – puffing contentedly at his pipe at the breakfast table of 221b Baker Street – only scoffed, the smoke jetting out of his lips in a spurt. He was dressed as he tended to dress at home, with no John Watson to make sure he didn't catch cold – in a pair of light trousers held precariously up by a belt, a white shirt that had not been properly pressed or buttoned, and a pair of scuffed, unpolished boots that he had evidently not bothered to bend down and lace up. To complete the rather haphazard look, an unfastened red necktie had been carelessly slung underneath a messily upturned collar.

"You know I really should turn you in to Scotland Yard."

"But you won't, will you, Sherlock?" Irene turned from the mirror and gave him a playful smile. "That's why I like you so much, you know. You distrust the police as much as I do."

"For different reasons, Miss Adler."

"Oh, they are not so different. The police amuse _me_; they only manage to bore _you_. Both emotions are exclusively reserved for the superior of intellect, and so I believe I can say we understand each other on that point – don't you?"

Holmes shot her a sharp look over his pipe.

"What I can't seem to understand, Miss Adler, is why you are here in my rooms at all."

"Didn't you miss me?"

"I would not dare to presume, Miss Adler, that whether I missed your presence or not has any bearing at all on the visit in question."

Irene settled back against the low table, leisurely removing her long silk gloves. Her nut-brown eyes sparkled with their usual mischief. "That wasn't what I asked, Sherlock."

"I will answer your question when you've answered mine."

"Which was?"

"Why you are here today."

"Ah," said Irene, drawing the word out. She tossed the shed gloves onto a chair before making her way towards the seated detective, her fingers lightly brushing against his shoulder. "The ever-elusive motive. Well, you're a detective, Sherlock; shouldn't you already know? Can't you read it, perhaps, from some abstract clue about how I've dressed, or my voice, or how I move about the room?" She paused, leaning over him with a provocative grin. "Or can it be that I've finally succeeded in puzzling the greatest human mind in London?"

Holmes arched a brow. "Only London?"

"I cannot speak for all Europe – though of all the minds of this great continent, Sherlock, yours must certainly be the most conceited."

"You flatter with the utmost charm, Miss Adler," said Holmes, smiling as he pulled away. "Although I don't think I can accept the title. Our Prime Minister is still alive, you know."

"But _have_ I puzzled you?"

"It depends on your definition of _puzzled_."

"Do you know, then, from where I have come today?"

Irene watched as Holmes wandered towards the bay-window and looked out into the street below. "From Dr Watson's home. To console him, perhaps, on the recent loss of his wife."

"He told me you had not visited yet."

"That is an accurate summary of the current state of affairs, yes."

Irene fell silent, sharply observing every nuance of expression in the back Sherlock Holmes presented to her; the sudden stiffness that had entered the muscles of the neck, the way he seemed adamant not to face her. There were an infinite number of clues in that back, clues that Holmes usually kept fiercely under his guard – the fact that they'd leaked through in such a moment only emphasised what Irene already knew.

Finally, she sighed. Her voice was startlingly sober.

"I'm very sorry for it, you know, Sherlock. She was a very good woman."

"You met her?"

"Not in person, no. But any woman who could remove Dr Watson willingly from your side must have rather considerable merits of her own."

"Is the doctor..." Holmes trailed off, then suddenly cleared his throat. "Well, he must be very upset, of course."

"He is alright. He is in good health." Irene felt, rather than saw, the detective's relief. "But you should still visit, Sherlock; he needs you right now. I'm sure he did not mean what he said to you – "

"He meant it."

"Sherlock."

"I know he meant it. He blames me in part for her death, Miss Adler; I am certain of that. I know it is so."

"He has forgiven you."

"I haven't forgiven myself."

"Sherlock, this is not like you at all," Irene rebuked, but keeping her voice very light and gentle. "From my knowledge, you are always the first to forgive yourself, especially when something is entirely your fault."

"You could be speaking to your own reflection, Miss Adler."

"Well, I do own we share quite a few vices, yes; but at least _bull-headedness_ is not something I share with you. It doesn't go well with pearls, you see, and anything which doesn't go well with pearls isn't worth having – at least from a lady's point of view." Irene sighed when Holmes didn't try to reply. "You really must go and see him, Sherlock. He is all alone."

For a long moment, Holmes said nothing. Then, suddenly, he turned around and gave Irene Adler a piercing look.

"Was that the sole mission for your visit, Miss Adler? Or was there something else as well?"

Irene smiled and snapped out her fan. "That was all."

"To induce me to visit Dr Watson's home."

"Yes."

Holmes seemed perplexed by this – which was a sight Irene very rarely saw, although it always brought her mixed feelings whenever she did. There was a vulnerability about Sherlock Holmes when he didn't have logic to prop him up, and Irene – who had long ago recognised this weakness and treasured it more closely than any pilfered gem – felt the familiar overwhelming sadness, the knowledge that she was not enough to bridge that fundamental gap inside him. She was a distraction, a brilliant, bright little bauble; she caught the light when there was light around her to catch, and she reflected it back onto those around her. A dazzling, inconsequential thing. A will-o'-the-wisp. She came; she flashed fire; she went. It had taken her three years away from England to realise this terrible, altering truth, a truth she had been unwilling to accept at first (Irene Adler, not able to snare the man she loved?), but with time had come acknowledgement, had come defeat. Those three years, Sherlock Holmes hadn't once tried to find her. And yet she'd heard from John Watson all the things Holmes had done – tricks, plots; elaborate, juvenile things – to make Watson return to Baker Street. She'd seen Watson's face – seen the confused, weary fondness – seen the exasperated way he'd described everything, seen the half-smile that had followed, irrepressibly.

She'd known then, finally, what it all had meant.

Even if Holmes and Watson didn't realise it yet, Irene Adler did with a clarity that was frightening.

So when Holmes gave her that childish, bewildered look that shot straight through her armour and into her chest, Irene Adler didn't say anything. She didn't smile; she didn't try to laugh. She didn't try to make a witty jest.

Sherlock Holmes needed to find out for himself that there was a part of him – buried perhaps very deep, but still there – which needed John Watson, desperately.

A part which would tell him he didn't need Irene.

0-0-0

"You are quite possibly the worst gentleman I've ever met, Sherlock."

Irene watched, entertained, as Holmes shot a quick glance out of the hansom cab window. The sixth time in five minutes. Irene Adler was counting.

"I couldn't possibly be the worst, Miss Adler. Not considering the sort of society _you_ associate with."

"My, that could be construed as a very ungracious insult," Irene exclaimed laughingly. "I shall have to strike you on the face with my glove, if you're not careful, and then you will be forced to fight a duel. Dr Watson would take up my side, no doubt. He'd shoot you for me. And he'd enjoy it, too."

"Yes, no doubt he would."

"But could _you_ shoot _him?_"

"Mmm."

"What a thoroughly intriguing couple you are," Irene mused, which earned her a shrewd look from her companion. "I meant _couple_ as in _two people_, of course, not as _two persons involved romantically _– although from the reports of your bickering these last three years, such a phrase would not be applied incorrectly, I think."

"Reports?"

"Dr Watson has been kind enough to give me some details of your relationship, yes."

"He wrote you?"

"Certainly not. He told me – this morning."

Holmes looked out again. _Seven,_ Irene thought smilingly.

"This cab is going too fast," he said eventually. "We are turning into Curzon Street already. This is really quite unacceptable. At this rate, we will reach Cavendish Place at precisely twelve-thirty-three."

"And is there any objection to us arriving at precisely twelve-thirty-three?"

"It's too soon."

"You're afraid of seeing him."

"I am _not_," but Irene saw the look on his face, the fleeting flash of uncertainty. "I merely don't want to trouble the good doctor so close to lunch; he always lunches at one, you know. It doesn't make sense, since he breakfasts around about ten, and three hours is certainly not enough time to digest all that toast and eggs and tea, but every time I speak to him about it – "

"Rambling is an indication of nervousness, Sherlock," Irene cut in, tapping him on the knee with her fan. "And he breakfasted early this morning. I saw him at nine. In fact, I very much doubt that he slept at all last night."

"Watson never neglects his sleep."

"He did this time, Sherlock, I assure you." _Eight._ "Oh, do stop looking outside. You are in the presence of a lady. Out of form, you might at least _pretend_ to stare at her, instead of at whatever it is you're looking for in the outside street. It would only be polite."

"We are on Dalton Street."

"That is no excuse for your lack of gallantry."

"The last time I was aware of such, Miss Adler, gallantry did not constitute staring at young ladies in hansom cabs."

"No, that falls into the lot of _common manners_," said Irene airily. "_Gallantry_ involves staring _and_ paying pretty compliments. This is a new bonnet, you know."

_Nine._ "It becomes you charmingly."

"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Irene sighed as Holmes gave a disinterested "Hmm" in response. "Although for the sake of sincerity, you might actually _look_ at the bonnet in question before paying the compliment. But no matter. You are out of practice, I guess. I can't think that Mrs Hudson would have any praise-worthy headwear."

"Must this cab go so fast?"

"Sherlock," and Irene's voice suddenly turned earnest, "you are rather studiously avoiding all my attempts at distracting you. You need not worry. Dr Watson wishes to see you, I'll swear to that."

"He said as such?"

"He did not have to. Call it a... woman's intuition, if you will. You men are always terribly hopeless with this sort of thing."

Holmes looked at her abruptly. "With _what_ sort of thing, Miss Adler?"

Irene smiled. "With knowing what you actually want."

"I never have that issue," countered Sherlock Holmes stubbornly, casting his grey eyes at the window again. "I always know exactly what I want, and right now, I want this hansom cab to slow down. Cabman? Sir! Slow the horse down, will you? The lady is feeling faint."

"Why, what a dreadful liar you are, Sherlock! I don't feel faint at all."

"You certainly _look_ faint."

"No, Sherlock, that is _not_ how you pay a compliment. There is an art to compliments! I'm afraid you aren't a natural in it. The modern euphemism for _faint_ is _fair of complexion_; you should remember that, next time you want to slow down a cab."

Holmes made a noncommittal noise at this, settling back in his seat with unconcealed agitation and tucking his unshaved chin onto his chest. Irene smothered the fond smile that leapt to her lips, opting instead for a sort of wry amusement. It was easier to hide behind amusement. Pretending she didn't take anything seriously in all the world was a skill, a finely crafted mask that she wore with double-edged care around Sherlock Holmes; but always in the perpetual fear it was slipping, that within a single, unforeseen, unguarded moment, he might see through it entirely and lose all his prior interest in her – or worse, that he might pity her. Irene knew she'd rather die than have Sherlock Holmes pity her.

"Are you going to come in?"

Irene jerked sharply out of her thoughts. "I'm sorry?"

"Will you come in with me? When we... get there. You know."

"Would you like me to? I'd hate to impose upon an intimate reunion between Dr Watson and yourself."

"I'm rather expecting a loaded revolver, in truth."

"Oh, Sherlock," and Irene leaned forward to pat his hand reassuringly, "Dr Watson is not so very ungallant as that. He wouldn't shoot you without giving you plenty of warning first. And then you'd have time to run out the door, or out a window, or hide yourself behind my skirt."

Holmes chuckled at that, and Irene sagged a little in relief.

"That's better. You see? It is not like you are going to be crucified."

"I should have told him about Mary."

"None of that, now."

"It's true, Miss Adler; I should have told him the very moment I knew."

"I don't think I quite like you today, Sherlock. I preferred you _without_ a conscience, and thoroughly unscrupulous; you were much more dashing then. And anyway, my maxim is never to dwell on the past – it makes one seem horribly self-indulgent, you know. Ah, here we are: Cavendish Place. You may escort me out of the carriage, Sherlock."

The street was a busy one. All over the pavement and the cobblestones there was a great activity, a great sense of predefined purpose; a coordinated and corroborated feel to the all-consuming, reeling mass. Ordered chaos. Gentlemen – gold-and-ivory-tipped canes tucked pompously beneath their arms – bowed politely to ladies they recognised, hailed cabs, walked briskly down the street with gold-gilt pocket-watches in their hands. Ladies moved beneath lace parasols in groups, chatting amiably, gowns hidden beneath long cloaks. And then the blurry region of the less reputable: clothes not so smart, faces not so well-powdered, carrying boxes, carrying carpet-bags, voices a little too loud when they spoke. A few urchins dashing about bare-foot. Servants on errands. Heat coming off cab-horse flanks. Not a single distinctness in the entire spectrum of people; but a vast continuum, in which one type blended into another, in the same way that each house facing into the street blended together like row upon row of bricked teeth. Each apartment had no lack of delicate charm – but each one's charm was so similar to that of its neighbours that, delicate or not, they all seemed alike. Such was London – so compressed and so minutely diverse that the overwhelmed senses had no choice but to step back, to squint, to take only the general idea to avoid being swept away by a voluminous whole.

That was obviously not the approach of Sherlock Holmes. Irene looked on, an indulgent smile on her face, as his grey eyes swept calmly over the street, no doubt committing every important detail to memory.

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"As much as I adore you, I have no overwhelming desire to spend the remainder of my existence in this cab, you know."

Holmes threw one final glance out of the window (Irene sighed and thought resignedly, _Ten_) before opening the cab door and letting himself out. The outside air was fresh and clean – crisp with the approach of a long-awaited summer and the promise of oncoming days of heat.

"Why, you were wrong, Sherlock," said Irene teasingly once Holmes had helped her onto the pavement; "It is only twelve-thirty. We are inexcusably early."

Holmes busied himself in paying the fare. "Yes, quite."

"Shall we stand on the pavement for a moment, then? Or brave Fate by ringing the doctor a full three minutes early?"

Knowing full-well which of these options Holmes would be inclined towards, Irene didn't wait for an answer, instead hooking a gloved arm into the detective's own and manoeuvring him (a tad forcefully) towards Watson's front gate.

Holmes baulked at the steps. Irene's answer was a curt jab in the ribs with her fan.

"Now, Sherlock, no trouble, please."

"We're early."

"Please don't make a scene. I usually adore them, provided they're made over _me_; but I have absolutely no interest in making one over _you_. Up the steps, now."

"Miss Adler – "

"Shall I ring? Or shall you?" Before Holmes could furnish some other excuse, Irene stretched out an elegant hand and rang the bell. "There. It's done. Now, we wait."

"He may not be home."

"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous."

"He may be busy with a grievously injured patient."

"He will have _another_ grievously injured patient in a moment, Sherlock, in the form of _you_ if you do not cease this childishness," said Irene, but there was a pert little smile on her lips.

Holmes gave her a pouting look. "Are you threatening me, Miss Adler? I thought you were in love with me."

"Oh, I _am_ in love with you, Sherlock; that's why I'm doing this."

Irene had kept her voice light and flippant, her smile winning, but try as she might she couldn't look into his face. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Holmes frown, surprise and sudden confusion rising in his grey eyes. She instantly regretted her impulsivity.

"Miss Adler, what are you – "

"Holmes?"

Irene's smile broadened, recognising a lifeline when she saw one. "Dr Watson."

To her relief, Holmes immediately abandoned his attempt to puzzle her out and turned to his friend, eyes now crackling with a multitude of emotions that Irene Adler scrutinised carefully. It was only around John Watson that Holmes became transparent – his indifference, his projected imperturbable calm always faltered just that tiny fraction whenever Watson was in the vicinity; not enough for the doctor himself to notice, but just enough for Irene's experienced eye. A glance that lasted just that little too long; a smile, after Watson had turned away. Little chips that fell from the high, hard walls Sherlock Holmes, in his logic, had built for himself. And now, Irene distinctly recognised the things that flashed across Holmes' half-open face: the surprise, the joy, the concern, the denial. The fear. And then an all-encompassing coolness as Sherlock Holmes reconstructed the walls once again.

A brisk, slightly impersonal nod. "Doctor."

Watson, who had evidently not expected to see his former room-mate on his front doorstep, seemed at a loss for words. He stared. His brows gathered, puzzled, together. "I – Holmes, what are you doing here?"

"Miss Adler wished to pay you a visit; I agreed to escort her as far as here, but since I have an urgent appointment in under an hour – "

"You are not leaving?"

"I'm afraid I must. It is a new case, and so you'll have to excuse – "

Catching the way Holmes was looking towards a nearby cab, Irene's quick brain instantly threw up a plan and she cut in before he could manage another fatal word.

"Sherlock, I think I feel a bit faint."

Holmes shot her a look that was almost panic. "Now, Miss Adler – "

"I'm sorry doctor," said Irene, suddenly leaning very hard on Sherlock Holmes, all the while keeping a very firm grip on his elbow, "I was not feeling very well in the cab on the way here – Sherlock can attest to that. It's this horrid corsetry. What demands you men make upon your women! I can scarcely breathe. May we go inside, perhaps?"

Watson – ever the gentleman – immediately took a step back from the doorway. "Why – yes, the sitting room is just upstairs on the left, if you need – "

"A couch? Yes, I'd like that, thank-you, doctor. Sherlock, you may help me in."

"Miss Adler, you know I can't really stay – "

Irene leaned harder. Her brown eyes blazed him a warning above her smile. "Come now, Sherlock. You'll take some tea. I insist."

"I have an appointment to keep – "

"She insists."

Irene looked up, surprised at the way Watson had said those words. They'd seemed simple enough, but Irene could tell by the startled, semi-reminiscent look on Holmes' face that there was something that she could not understand – something higher – that had passed between the two, something intimate, with the utterance. She looked between them, trying to comprehend. She couldn't. And she knew she never would; those words had recalled for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson something to which she, as an outsider, was not privy.

It hurt her a little, but she pressed it down. Vaguely, she was aware of Sherlock Holmes saying, a tad uncertain, but still managing to sound light-hearted:

"Watson, you remember we talked about this."

There was an unexpected half-smile on Watson's face, as if at a memory. Irene watched as he turned away.

"Well, you heard her, Holmes. The lady insists."

0-0-0

The first five minutes were undeniably awkward, Watson quietly laying out tea and Holmes – uncharacteristically silent – pretending to be preoccupied. Irene, stretched out on the couch with pillows under her head, was perfectly aware that said awkwardness was due entirely to her presence; knew she was a precarious lid on all the volatile emotions straining to be let out between the two.

Sometime in the fourth minute, Watson finally said, "I had not expected you to visit me again today, Miss Adler."

Irene laughed at the stiff restraint in Watson's tone. "Oh, I won't stay long, doctor. I came to... deliver a package, merely. I'll just catch my breath, and then I'll be off."

"You won't stay for lunch?"

"No; I fancy I shan't." Irene stood with a small sigh, brushing the creases from her frock. "The tension in this room is quite unbearable, and my doctor advises me never to take food in such charged atmospheres as this – apparently it makes one liable to stones of some sort. Most unpleasant."

"I trust that tea does not count as food," said Watson, the restraint melting a little at her pertness.

"No – but I must be going all the same."

"Shall I call a carriage then, Miss Adler?"

"The weather is charming, so I think I shall walk. Now, my cloak – ah, thank-you, doctor." She smiled at him and moved towards the door. "There won't be a need to see me out; you had best stay with Sherlock, lest he explode something in your absence. He has a habit of doing that – but I'm sure you're already aware of such."

"Yes, I am," and Watson gave Holmes a small, dry look.

"I've never exploded anything in your rooms, old boy," Holmes protested then, artfully widening his eyes. "Not once. Not even a single teapot. Or a vase."

"You've exploded plenty in Baker Street to make up for that, Holmes."

"You are always exaggerating my experimental exploits, doctor. I distinctly remember that in all our time at Baker Street I never managed to explode a vase more than twice."

Irene laughed, throwing him a sideways wink. As she left she saw the doctor was standing by a bookcase, his strong arms folded over his chest, his eyes down – his clothes still that of the deepest mourning – but an unmistakeable, genuine smile on his face.

0-0-0

The problem, Irene decided, was one of clothes.

The skirt was an especially difficult thing. It was wide and ungainly; the epitome of the latest Parisian fashion but so heavy that, standing on the narrow roof-ledge of Watson's apartment at Cavendish Place, Irene Adler was beginning to believe all the stories she'd heard of London women getting themselves blown over cliffs in high winds. She wished – not for the first time in the past five minutes – that she'd had the good sense to steal some of the doctor's clothes before stepping out onto the doctor's roof; they wouldn't have fit her, wouldn't have come anywhere _close_, but at least she would have had the consolation of knowing she wouldn't be splattered onto the sidewalk should Mother Nature decide to pick up the breeze.

Luckily, John Watson's sitting room window did not face entirely out to the street. The English were unobservant as a rule (Sherlock Holmes, perhaps, the only one excepted), but Irene knew that even the most cloddish of Englishmen would notice a lady standing on a roof in broad daylight if said roof was right in front of the street. She would have had to listen at the sitting room's keyhole instead – which would've been easier, but which would've have felt distinctly more...

...amateurish.

And Irene Adler was definitely _not_ an amateur in these things.

Granted, after five or six minutes she was beginning to regret her more professional – but infinitely more uncomfortable – choice of the two options she'd had available to her; but reasoned that, since the roof in question ran just under the desired sitting room window, she could bear the discomfort. For the moment, at least.

From inside, she heard footsteps approaching the window. She shrank back, heart racing, as Dr John Watson threw it wide open (no doubt Holmes was smoking that infernal tobacco of his) and then promptly left it again.

"I had no idea you still remembered that, old boy."

Irene inched forward, peeping one eye over the sill just as Watson reached the sitting room table.

"How could I forget?" The sound of pouring tea. "She _did_ empty a glass of wine over you, that time. And it was thoroughly deserved on your part, Holmes, might I add."

"I cannot agree, my dear Watson. It was _she_ who insisted – "

"You could have refused."

"And be accused of ungallantly denying a lady?" Holmes scoffed, parking his pipe back into his mouth. "Preposterous. Utterly preposterous. I'm surprised you'd even suggest such a thing."

"So you chose the infinitely more gallant option of insulting her to her face instead."

"She had no stomach for my talents. That is no fault of mine."

"You deserve to be taken out and whipped," but Irene heard the amusement in the doctor's voice. "You are the prime example of mind over manners, Holmes. It won't serve you."

"It's served me quite well in the past."

"That's because, in the past, you lived with _me_."

"And you made up in manners what you lacked in mind, so we were bound to get along, weren't we?" Watson snorted and Holmes flashed him a self-satisfied grin. "But on the subject of us residing together, old boy – you know there's nothing to prevent us from returning to that arrangement. Your old room is still obligingly empty."

Irene winced at the sudden tightness that entered Watson's face, and knew that Holmes had pushed too far too soon, once again.

"Holmes."

"Mrs Hudson has been asking after you – "

"You know I cannot move back to Baker Street."

Holmes fell silent at that, moodily staring down at the floor. Finally, he said: "And why not?"

"After what you've done – I'm surprised I even let you into the house today. If Miss Adler had not been there, I don't think I would have been able to."

Irene shifted a little closer, trying to catch the answering expression on Holmes' face. When she did, she saw it was decidedly blank; wiped clean of everything, the grey eyes giving nothing away.

"So you have not yet forgiven me, old boy. Well. I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything less."

Watson sighed, sank into a basket-chair. "It's not that I've not forgiven you, Holmes; it's just – I can forgive, I just cannot at the moment _forget_. Perhaps in a year or so – "

"A year is very long, old boy."

"Long – but necessary." Watson suddenly looked tired, as if the momentary respite afforded by the banter of a few minutes previous had run out, and now all the things that had been weighing on his mind before Holmes' arrival were piling themselves back up again. "You were wrong not to tell me about Mary, Holmes. I can forgive that, because I too was at fault, but I cannot forget it. You know it was a blatant betrayal of our friendship."

"She did not wish me to tell you, old boy. I could not break her trust."

"So you broke mine instead."

Holmes seemed to have nothing to say to that, his eyes sinking gloomily to the carpet again. His rumpled form sagged a little in the armchair. Irene bit her lip, gaze raking over Watson's face in the hope that she would find some small clue there – but the doctor had propped his brow against his hand, and it was difficult to make out any of his expression.

Finally, the hand dropped away and Watson sighed. Motioned weakly towards the table.

"Tea?"

"No, old boy, I'm alright."

A moment passed. Then: "I never asked you before, Holmes, but – _why_ didn't you tell me? And please don't excuse yourself by quoting Mary's wishes. I know you well enough to understand it was not any misguided sense of discretion which held your tongue."

"I know what you're thinking, Watson – and I tell you, it wasn't because of that."

"It wasn't because of what?"

"That I wished Mary gone." The detective's voice was low and sincere. "It is true that, of these three years that you have been married to her, I have not been... content. But I would never go to such lengths to remove her, Watson. That would have been openly malicious, and – despite what you may think of my morals – I would have felt it beneath me to do such a thing. I don't play games when human life enters into the equation."

"You've played such games before, Holmes, you know."

"Yes; with _your_ life, and with _mine_. We both knew the risks, and we were both of us willing – at least, most of the time. But with Mary, old boy? That is not quite the same thing. Initially, I was quite against keeping her condition from you; I knew it would hurt you when you found out, you see, and I knew you _would_ find out. It was only a matter of time. Sooner or later, you'd catch her during one of her coughing fits, or see the blood she tried to hide on the pillows or the sheets. You'd notice that she was getting much too thin – and so on. And then you'd panic. You'd worry." Holmes paused, not looking up. "Mary knew that."

"Was that why – "

"She was convinced that nothing could've been done to help her, and she was convinced you'd destroy yourself trying to prove otherwise."

The knuckles on Watson's hands were white, but he somehow managed to keep his voice steady. "She told you that?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Late last March."

"And..." Watson cleared his throat slightly, the half-suppressed pain tight against his face. "And by that time, you'd already known about the consumption for – how long?"

Holmes looked at him. "A week. At most. She was a truly remarkable woman, Watson; not only had she been able to hide her illness from you, but she had also managed to blind me to it for at least a year. I say that in earnest, old boy – I knew nothing of her condition until March last year."

"Upon which you confronted her?"

"Yes."

"Had she seen a doctor?"

"She told me she had already been to a doctor in Piccadilly, and that he had – not been very encouraging."

Watson's jaw clenched. "She only saw _one_ doctor? Why did she not – "

"She said she'd felt there was no real need. His diagnosis had confirmed what she'd already felt intuitively, and as such – "

"Intuition is not anything _definite!_" Watson wrenched himself up out of the basket-chair in one sharp, rough movement and moved distractedly towards the mantel. "There are treatments – diets – we could have moved her to a warmer climate, somewhere South, perhaps – "

"Perhaps." Holmes' voice was so quiet, Irene had to press herself right up against the window to hear it. "But in any case, she would not permit me to tell you anything."

"March wouldn't have been too late – we could have done _something_ – "

"I'm sorry, old boy."

"You're _sorry _– !" Watson threw his hands up in a wordless gesture of despair. "You're _sorry_ – oh, Holmes. You don't understand how – if only you'd _told_ me, if only you'd _said something_ – "

"She did not wish it."

"And _I_ would not wish you to conceal anything from me – but you chose to honour her wish over mine, Holmes! I could've _helped_ her – "

"She wanted your love, she did not want your worry. Watson," and Holmes leant forward to put a hand on Watson's arm, only to have it shaken off again by the doctor; "Watson, stop. Stop for a moment. Listen to me. You could not have done anything. _I_ could not have done anything. I agreed to say nothing because I saw she was right. By late March, Watson – winter had passed, and it had taken its toll, she could barely speak for coughing – "

"I never heard her coughing."

"You spent so much time at the clinic that winter, old boy, that in all truth I'm not the least surprised."

Watson took a step back as if he'd been slapped. Then for a long, tense moment, there was no sound at all; outside by the window, Irene held her breath, trembling, afraid of what she suspected was coming, afraid of the words she felt would soon mangle their irreversible, terrible way from John Watson's mouth and into the air.

They didn't come.

Instead, it was Holmes – tone soft now, apologetic:

"I did not mean to hurt you with what I said just then, my dear Watson. Believe me – I did not mean it."

"It's alright."

The tension passed out of the room in a rush as if suddenly too tired to keep itself up. Watson sighed deeply, dropping himself back into the chair and passing a hand over his eyes. Holmes – unused to such situations – tried to comfort him by gingerly patting his arm, as if he expected any moment to be rebuffed.

He wasn't.

"I'm very sorry about Mary, old boy. I really am."

"It's alright. It wasn't your fault." Watson let out a shaky breath. "I apologise for my loss of temper, Holmes. It was selfish of me to blame you for Mary. I – I don't know what came over me."

"It's nothing."

At the relieved silence which followed this, Irene felt her entire body sag with the same sentiment – so much so that she almost crossed herself. Not being religious, however (something else she shared with Holmes), she settled for leaning heavily against the window ledge instead. Everything would be alright now; she could feel it acutely. It was an intuitive thing – and Irene Adler's intuition was rarely wrong, if ever. No. The first hurdle, she knew, had been overcome: that of forgiveness, true forgiveness, something Holmes had not expected but which Watson had ultimately found it within him to give.

Irene smiled a little to herself. Well, she'd done a good morning's work; enough to earn her lunch at the Savoy, at least. With this new thought in mind, she was just in the process of easing back off the roof towards the open window of Watson's study when there was the sudden sound of tearing fabric from behind.

Her head snapped back. What she saw almost made her groan.

And then the next moment Holmes was leaning out of the window of the sitting room, his pipe in his hand and his eyebrow raised.

For a moment, the two of them just looked at each other. And then the detective's face broke into an amused little grin as he took in the sight of Irene Adler there on the roof, the silk of her bustle caught on the sill and ripped all the length of a dainty box-pleat.

"I had not expected to see you again so soon, Miss Adler," he said; "but in any case, I think you had best come in."

* * *

**A/N: I think this is perhaps one of the first stories (that I've read, at least) which have told of the Holmes/Watson relationship from Irene Adler's point of view. I'd originally intended to write from Watson's POV, but since both **_**Post-Marital Sabotage**_** and **_**Quindecim Secundus**_** were from his POV, I decided that I'd try something different. And anyway, sometimes I think Watson has a thoroughly one-track mind. Irene Adler would be more... fun. ;) **

**Let me know in a review if you like what I've done so far – so I'll know there's a point finishing the second part of this story, which I've currently done about half of.**

**Please, please don't forget to review, my lovelies!**


	2. Part II: A Fact of the Age

**A/N: A humble Two-Shot no longer, my friends; halfway through writing this Chapter, I realised belatedly that it would be nigh impossible to cram everything into two meagre Parts. Absolutely no room to manoeuvre. So I've extended it, though Lord knows how many Parts there'll be now; I'll just... let it flow. Hope you guys don't mind.**

**Thanks to my reviewers for Part I: Kyla45, roxxihearts, janinePSA, zombified419, mildetryth, euphrates, BrieStarWarsQueen, Shinobi Mi-chan, UbiquitousPhantom, Lucy'sDaydreams (as to your request for smut - I'll see what I can do, but no guarantees :wink:), speechbubble, Positively, SutaakiHitori, Middle-Earth Muggle, lime-kitteh, NeverFree, Huehuetecti, raven612, Smoochy, Master Li, adevotedreader, Fayet, glasswalker, swabloo, Always a Bookworm, Shella, wild4rose7cool, and Curreeus. You guys are the reason why I write what I do. ;)**

**Enjoy this instalment, and don't forget to review!**

* * *

II. A Fact of the Age

The difference between the common criminal and the _artiste_ was a very subtle one:

Poise.

For Irene, who undoubtedly belonged to the second category, such poise in the face of crisis came naturally. Even with only half of her bustle intact – which was a thing of regret, as the frock was new – and with Sherlock Holmes opening the sitting room door with a wry, unsettling smile on his face, she was still able to swan into the room as nonchalantly as if she'd just come in from a party.

From his basket-chair, Watson arched his brows at her.

"I hope the weather on the roof was as charming as you'd hoped, Miss Adler?"

"Oh, it was splendid. Although," and Irene turned towards Holmes, who had been busy in closing the door after her, "you really must change your tobacconist, Sherlock. I could smell nothing the whole time except for your pipe. It was most nauseating."

Watson gave a short laugh at this, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair. "And was the expedition worth the nausea, Miss Adler? Did you manage to hear anything of consequence?"

"I heard plenty of consequence, and absolutely nothing of interest."

"Nothing? I'm afraid we've disappointed you, then."

"Oh, I would not go so far as to call it a _disappointment_," said Irene airily as she began to remove her gloves. "The most consequential things are always the most disinteresting, like politics. May I have some tea, doctor? Thank-you. It is most uncomfortable out there, you know. And you two did not seem to want to let up."

She did not miss the slight note of discomfort that entered Watson's eyes at this.

"I... may have gotten a little carried away, yes."

Irene smiled and took it upon herself to lighten the mood. "You are such a very upright man, doctor, that I can't imagine _you_ getting carried away by anything short of a global cataclysm, or a very forceful rendition of _Die Walküre_. Which is a pity – you are so very handsome to look at, you know. Sometimes I think _I_ wouldn't mind carrying you away for myself. Indeed, I think you would suit me perfectly."

"What of Holmes, then?"

Irene paused, pretending to consider for a moment. "Well, I had not really given thought to that; but now that you mention it, doctor, I suppose – well, yes. It's quite true that you would suit _him_ perfectly too."

"That was not what I meant," said Watson, startled but laughing.

"None of us ever know what we mean," although she took the utmost care to scrutinise Watson's face. "It's a fact of the age. Am I not right, Sherlock?"

"Yes, quite."

Irene blinked at the strangeness in Holmes' voice. There was a sudden calculating look on his aquiline features, and the sharp way with which he was watching her was unnerving; as if he'd only just recognised some elusive clue that had been woven all along into Irene's repartee, and was only now trying to gauge how reliable it was, how complete. Irene smiled at him. Quite flirtatiously. But she matched his bold stare without wavering – knowing that if Holmes respected anything, it was tenacity – and let her message reach him silently through her gaze, confident he was capable of deciphering it.

_I _am_ in love with you, Sherlock; that's why I'm doing this._

_I insist._

_You would suit him perfectly._

0-0-0

"My dear Watson, whatever was the matter with you? You seemed distracted through the entire thing."

Irene, her arm threaded through Watson's left, bit hard on her lips to suppress a smile as the three of them passed down the Royal Opera House steps.

"Why, Sherlock, he cannot have been more distracted than _you_; and you are always passing yourself off as being cultured, too. I think it a most disgraceful deception on your part, you know."

Holmes gave her a surprised look. "You think me unrefined, Miss Adler?"

"Certainly. You paid absolutely no attention to the opera – "

"Which is unforgivable, I expect?" quipped Watson, lending her a small smile.

"Oh, no, doctor; I have nothing against him for _that_. Indeed, it is quite _un_cultured to listen to operas with alacrity, nowadays – everybody simply winds up believing you're deaf. No, Sherlock; you paid absolutely no attention to the opera, which is forgivable, but you paid absolutely no attention to _me_ either, which is not." She leaned across to straighten the detective's tie, earning herself an irritated glare in response. "You spent the entire Third Act staring at Dr Watson here, and now I'm quite jealous. I'm no fun jealous, you know. As they say, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."

"I did not stare at him," Holmes mumbled, jerking away as she tried to fix his collar.

Irene clucked her tongue and fixed it anyway. "Then how did you know he was distracted, Sherlock? If you weren't staring."

"I deduced it."

"Without any data?"

"I never make deductions without any data."

"And you can't gather data without observation, and you can't make observation without staring, Sherlock. It is quite a terrible habit of yours. No subtlety at all. Whenever you are in an inquisitive mood, everyone around you winds up with one less layer of skin."

"Shall I call a cab for us?" said Watson, breaking into their playful _tête-à-tête_. "Or shall we remain standing on the pavement here until the two of you run out of things to say?"

"Oh, we shall never run out of things to say," laughed Irene as she returned to his side; "At least, _I _shan't. I am too over-educated for that."

Watson shook his head with a smile. "I'll get us a cab."

"Two cabs, if you please." And then, when he looked at her in surprise, "Oh, I am sending Sherlock away in disgrace. I shan't have him in the same cab as you and I – he will ignore me entirely and stare at you the whole while, which does terrible things to a woman's vanity. And besides," she added, more seriously, "I want to speak to you alone for a few minutes, doctor. It would be easiest for me to do so in a cab."

"Speak to me? Alone?"

"Oh, don't look so apprehensive. I promise I shall be perfectly well-behaved."

"You are never perfectly well-behaved," grumbled Holmes from Watson's other side. "And I'm not taking a separate cab, Miss Adler."

"Sherlock, there's no need for _you_ to be jealous. I shall return the good doctor to you once we reach Cavendish Place, and I assure you he'll be none the worse for wear."

"I have had experience enough not to trust your assurances."

Irene laughed, curling her arm through Watson's again. "Really, Sherlock, is it quite decent for you to be so suspicious of a lady? The most harm I could do to Dr Watson in a cab would probably be to kick him in the shin with my boot, and even then he'd feel nothing through all this lace."

"That is not the reason for my concern, Miss Adler."

"That is because you _have_ no reason to be concerned, Sherlock."

Watson rolled his eyes and turned away, leaving the other two still bickering by the street.

"I'll go and call the cabs," he said dryly over his shoulder, "or else we'll never get home tonight, I think."

0-0-0

Irene hummed, her chin tilted up provocatively as she gazed out of the window of the hansom cab. The faint, whitish lay of smog on the rooftops and chimneys of the passing houses had the thin consistency of buttermilk, and at the thought of the clean, crisp air outside, she pulled her velvet cloak tighter about her shoulders.

Her voice was light. "Didn't you enjoy my choice of the opera tonight, Dr Watson?"

"I enjoyed it very much, Miss Adler."

Irene hummed again and turned to look at him.

"There's no need to be polite, doctor. If you did not like it, you have only to say so. I'm a lady, but I am not so delicate that I cannot bear to have my operatic tastes challenged, you know."

"It was very well-sung."

"But you did not like it." Irene nodded as if confirming some little detail to herself. "I do not have Sherlock's level of insightfulness, perhaps, but I do have a very good lorgnette to make up for it. You _were_ distracted through the entire thing. Most notably, doctor, during Act Three."

"It is nothing."

"In my experience, nothing is very rarely, if ever, nothing."

Watson cleared his throat, obviously desiring to change the subject. "I believe you wished to speak to me about something, Miss Adler? Something you did not wish Holmes to overhear?"

"I wished to discuss the opera, doctor," answered Irene, with a flippant smile, "which was what we were doing until you tried to divert the conversation just now. Such a venerable masterpiece, _La Traviata_. One of my all-time favourites, I believe."

The surprise made itself known on the doctor's features. "The opera?"

"Did you know, perhaps, that Verdi based its story upon Alexandre Dumas' _La Dame aux Camélias_? And that Violetta Valéry had her tragic roots in the celebrated French courtesan, Marie Duplessis? It is said Dumas actually had an affair with her. I, for one, don't believe such a thing. No self-respecting lady – or self-respecting courtesan, for that matter – should ever have an affair with a writer, let alone a French one; it makes one appear so very sentimental, you see. And sentimentality is becoming quite fatal nowadays. To be sentimental is to be romantic, and to be romantic is to be over forty years of age. But Verdi handles it quite admirably, I think."

"I have no idea what you're trying to say."

Irene laughed at the openly perplexed look on Watson's face. "But don't you agree? The most admired courtesan in all of Paris falls mutually in love with an upright man, and then ruins it all with ill-conceived notions of preserving his honour by rejecting him. He fumes at her rejection, publically insults her, leaves her, before discovering her self-sacrificial motives and subsequently confessing his love to her, only to have her die in his arms of consumption as the curtain falls."

"I thought you said you liked the opera, Miss Adler."

"Oh, I like it immensely. Sentimentality in oneself is unpardonable, but sentimentality in others is thoroughly amusing."

"I did not think the opera was _amusing_," said Watson, a little indignantly. "It was quite tragic."

Irene tapped her fan with her fingers lazily. "Tragedy, doctor, is misfortune falling upon oneself. Comedy is misfortune falling upon somebody else. That is the only difference between the two, as history has proven time and time again."

"All the same, I cannot see how you treat it so lightly, Miss Adler."

"I do not treat it lightly," said Irene then, suddenly turning serious. Her eyes sobered and she leaned forward to look into Watson's face earnestly. "I am merely trying to make a point – but perhaps I am not being direct enough. Let me try again."

"Pray do."

"I chose the opera in question for a reason, Dr Watson. Said reason was not to make you uncomfortable – as you undoubtedly were, due perhaps to the similarities you saw between Violetta Valéry's condition and that of your recently departed wife's, in Act Three."

Watson blinked. His lips parted a little. "How did you – "

"Please do not take this the wrong way, doctor, but you are quite transparent."

"Yes, I suppose I am," conceded Watson, his face clouding. "You are right, Miss Adler, in any case. That point was indeed the source of my unease."

"I hope you forgive me for it."

"You are entirely forgiven."

"Good." Irene smiled at him and patted his knee. "As I said, I had not intended to make you uncomfortable with my choice. Rather, I had intended to present to you... a certain social dilemma. Perhaps a moral one, too."

Watson frowned. "Why – "

"The _why_ shall make itself clearer in time. At present, let us concern ourselves with the actual _dilemma_." Irene settled back into her seat, her stance relaxed but her brown eyes incongruously sharp. "Violetta Valéry was a courtesan, doctor. Had she a right to claim the love of a respectable man? Let us step outside the realm of the operatic stage for a moment, and pretend this Violetta is genuine, although if she were I'd certainly advise her to leave her dressmaker. The tulle on her last gown was hideous. No, doctor – I don't want sentimentality, you understand. I want to know what you truly believe."

"I don't see why this is relevant."

"Everything is relevant," smiled Irene, winningly. "I am pretending to be Sherlock Holmes. I am pretending to ask a series of seemingly irrelevant questions to arrive at an astoundingly relevant end."

"And what end is that?"

"It wouldn't be an end if I revealed it now, would it?"

Watson sighed, although there was a wary amusement in the bright blue eyes. "Very well then, Miss Adler, I shall indulge you. In the case of Violetta Valéry – I do not see why there'd be any rightful objection against her loving whomever she pleased."

"She was a courtesan, doctor."

"And _you_ are a lady. I don't think that bears any weight on the question."

"I don't think we are quite looking at this in the right light," and Irene, laughing. "A lady and a courtesan are two different things. There'd be no gossip if _I_ were to marry a Baron tomorrow morning, but if a courtesan were to, there would most certainly be plenty."

"I did not think you were the type to flinch at gossip, Miss Adler."

"Oh, I am not. I love scandals. They make a woman interesting."

"Then what – "

"But _I_ am not the person under scrutiny here, doctor." Irene gave him a very meaningful look. "Let us pretend – that _you_ are the beloved gentleman here, the Alfredo Germont, so to speak. Horrid name, 'Alfredo', by the way. Now – since you are Germont, would _you_ accept the attentions of a courtesan, knowing full-well the consequences involved if you did?"

Watson looked taken aback at this. "I – I don't know."

"I suppose I had better make the consequences more clear. Gossip, certainly; but also social isolation, moral isolation, the silent disdain of every person around you, the spiteful laughter in drawing rooms far from yours where you, in your disgrace, are no longer invited. You would be in exile in your own country, doctor, in your own street. Friends would turn from you. Your family would turn from you, lest your depravity besmirch their own good name. And always you would have to brave the superciliousness, the wordless mock in every courteous smile, bear in silence the scorn of hypocrites. All these things – and possibly more. For love. Could you do it, I wonder? It's worth pondering."

"You bewilder me," and Watson's open face showed it plainly. "I have absolutely no understanding of why you wish to know these things."

"I can confidently assure you that I have my reasons."

"I hope so," and his mouth frowned beneath the moustache again. He tapped his cane distractedly against his boot. "I suppose – well, I'm not being sentimental, Miss Adler. But I think, in such a circumstance, I might take the risk."

"Might I press you so far as to ask you why?"

"This is a very thorough interrogation for the sake of a fictional character, Miss Adler."

"She was not fictional, she was Marie Duplessis. Her predicament was real, doctor, which is why I so adamantly seek your opinion upon it."

"And why is my opinion – "

"You are not following me," interrupted Irene, silencing him with an amused look. "You are bent upon particulars, doctor, and in doing so you are quite missing my point. Perhaps my example was not clear enough. Let me see – you are Germont, yes. And Violetta Valéry shall be... Sherlock Holmes."

"Holmes?"

"Just for the sake of example, you understand. I cannot obviously equate _myself_ with Violetta, for I am, as you pointed out previously, a lady."

Watson gave a snorting laugh. "Holmes will not be pleased when he hears about this."

"Oh, he doesn't need to hear of it, doctor. I don't intend him to. Now, within the constraints of our example, doctor – if Holmes offered you his... affection, would you be in any way inclined to accept it?"

"I can't imagine Holmes offering 'affection' to anyone or anything," said Watson, still laughing.

Irene made an impatient gesture. "Violetta, then. Forget Sherlock for the moment. Violetta. Would you endure the rejection of the social masses out of love for her?"

"This is entirely absurd."

"It is a very simple question, doctor."

"If I really loved her, then yes, I suppose I would." Watson's lip had twisted into an indulgent grin. "I am not overly fond of Society in any case. And anyway, I would not hear of something so superficial standing in the way of mutual happiness. Provided _she_ loved _me_ also, of course."

"And if she did?"

"Then the issue would be quite settled, wouldn't it?"

"Good!" Irene nodded approvingly. "I am so very glad to hear you say that. Let us return to Sherlock, then."

Watson's grin paused for the slightest moment on his face. "What of Holmes?"

Irene laughed, taking both herself and the doctor by surprise. The light of a streetlamp skimmed over her high cheekbones and for a moment, she was her usual uncaring self once more.

"You are looking apprehensive all over again! It is really quite charming. That is the only reason why I so enjoy scandalising polite society – they always manage such delightfully disapproving looks, as if no-one had ever been divorced before, or eloped, or worn evening gowns cut so low on the chest. How delicious is English morality! One feels almost obliged to break them out of the habit."

Watson looked at her cagily, refusing to be so easily deterred. "What of Sherlock Holmes, Miss Adler?"

"Well, he is your closest friend."

"He is indeed."

"He was not happy with your marriage, I believe?"

"He was initially unhappy, certainly," admitted Watson, still managing to look quite lost. "He threw up a lot of inconsequential fuss."

"But after four or five months, he began to desist."

"Yes, he did. He stopped trying to vilify Mary, in any case, which I took to mean he'd accepted my marriage to her. But Miss Adler," and the puzzled look intensified, "I don't see how this has any bearing upon – "

"You thought it was because he'd accepted your marriage?"

"Well, Miss Adler, I can't see any reason why else."

"Perhaps, doctor, it was because of the simple fact – that he saw you were happy as a married man."

The carriage around them began to slow, the steady drum of the cab-horse's hooves on cobblestone thudding to individual, distinctive clops. Irene shot a look outside the window – they were turning now into Cavendish Place, and just ahead of them, in the copper ring of streetlamp light, stood Sherlock Holmes. His hansom cab was nowhere in sight. There was a sulkiness in the hold of his shoulders that told Irene that he'd been there for a very long time, and before her quick mind had time to think better of it, her entire body warmed at the sight of him. For all his self-assurance and his intellect, Irene Adler knew she'd always think of him in the very manner that she saw him now – alone on the pavement, hands shoved into overcoat pockets, dark hair blown far beyond common decency by the wind; the childlike irritation to the set of his lips that betrayed his impatience and his guarded unease. Worry. For someone, but not for her. She turned back to that someone with newfound urgency, desperate to make him understand.

Watson seemed startled by the sudden gravity in her eye. "Miss Adler – "

"Violetta Valéry," Irene broke in, voice low as she tapped her fan against Watson's left wrist, "made the fatal error of self-sacrifice. For the honour and happiness of someone she loved, she was willing to give up her own right to both. A noble gesture – but the trouble with noble gestures is that they are never recognised until it is far too late." She leaned closer, propriety and manners be damned. Her words were sharp as they stung the air. "_Alfredo Germont_ was far too late. I only hope _you_, doctor, being a little wiser now than he, will not allow yourself to make the same mistake and overlook a fresh chance at happiness that, even now, is right before your face."

"I – " Watson stuttered, his eyes flickering over her face. He wet his lips. The hansom pulled to a stop. "I don't think I understand – what are you saying exactly, Miss Adler? I hope you are not propositioning me."

"Propositioning – ! No, doctor!" and at the unexpected notion Irene burst into a ringing laugh, sinking back into her seat again. "No, I am not – _propositioning_ you. Good Lord, no. Sherlock would have me arrested and hung."

"Then what – "

"As I stated before, doctor, I cannot equate _myself_ with Violetta. Whom Violetta Valéry stands for, in this immediate case, I shall allow you the privilege of puzzling out for yourself."

"I don't think – "

"The two of you are quite unpardonably late."

Irene turned to the narrowed eyes of Sherlock Holmes at the hansom cab's window without missing a beat. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw John Watson frown, still distracted by the words she'd said to him.

She smiled to give Watson more time to compose himself.

"Now, Sherlock, no unpleasantness until we've had tea. One can bear almost anything with a good cup of tea; sometimes I think it is the only sensible reason why the English have remained civilised for all this time. Although," she added as an afterthought, "whether they _are_ civilised or not is a matter of debate. Having spent so long in your company, Sherlock, I find myself beginning to think – "

"Are you alright, old boy?"

Watson gave him a preoccupied look. "What? Oh, yes. Yes, Holmes, I am fine."

"What has Miss Adler been saying to you?"

"There's no need to worry about my bad influence, Sherlock. I've merely overwhelmed him with my conversation, is all. He just needs a minute or so to recover from my wit."

"Not the only thing he needs to recover from, I think," and Holmes' eyes were deep in analysis. "A cab trip that bordered on almost an hour – you must have dispensed a bit more than just epigrams, Miss Adler."

"Oh, epigrams and advice," said Irene indifferently, motioning for the detective to open the cab door. "The two things left to a man nowadays that he does not need to pay a fortune to receive – although I _did_ have to bribe the cab-driver with a sovereign. But no matter. Dr Watson is still in one piece."

"You gave him advice, Miss Adler?" prodded Holmes then, unable to keep the suspicion out of his tone.

"Of the very best kind."

"And what kind is that?"

"The kind one inevitably regrets in the morning, because one has completely neglected one's own best interests." Irene allowed herself to be escorted onto the pavement. "And I am quite unused to neglecting my own interests, Sherlock. It always manages to make me feel quite, quite heartless."

"And no-one would ever describe _you_ as being heartless, Miss Adler."

"I hope not," and Irene laughed, though her eyes were sad. Sherlock Holmes could wound steel in his ignorance. "I hope not, Sherlock. Because then they would, for once, be right."

0-0-0

The brooding look on Watson's face did not fade upon relocation to his own sitting room. Irene Adler, too smart to presume otherwise, knew that Holmes had invariably picked up on this fact, which explained the searing glare he was currently directing at her back.

Feigning nonchalance, she moved towards the fireplace and warmed her gloved hands beside the flames.

"I hope you're not still sore about me putting you in a separate cab, Sherlock," she said. "It was for your own good, you know."

"Hmmph."

"But you wouldn't know anything about that," Irene continued with a sigh. "I've known you for almost five years now, and you are still incapable of seeing what's good for you and what isn't."

Holmes, his chin propped up against his wrist, gave a muffled grunt and shifted in his basket-chair.

"Watson, old boy, I need a stiff drink. You don't mind if I crack into the brandy you have in the liquor cabinet, do you?"

"Do you think it quite proper to drink while a lady is present?"

"Miss Adler," said Holmes to her severely, "if I had thought you to be the type to faint at the mere sight of a snifter, I would never have made your acquaintance at all."

"I don't recall you had any choice in the matter," put in Watson, unexpectedly. The other two turned to look at him, upon which he arched an eyebrow in response. "You were _paid_ to make her acquaintance, Holmes. And to keep it long enough to relieve her of a certain photograph."

"Oh, I remember that," said Irene in a bright voice. "I still have that photograph you know, Sherlock."

"You told me you'd destroyed it, Miss Adler."

"Did I? How peculiar." Irene rearranged her features into something resembling surprise. "I would never destroy that photograph. I look far too pretty in it. Didn't I show it to you? I quite outshone the reigning King of Bohemia, which is the real reason why he wants it back, of course."

Holmes, who had been busily invading Watson's spirit case during all this, now stood with two filled snifters in his hand. He crossed the room to pass one to the seated doctor, who accepted it from him without a word.

"Any other surprises, Miss Adler, while you're in the confessional?"

"What an inappropriate metaphor, Sherlock! You know I don't go to Church."

Holmes sniffed, tilting his head to one side to fix a beady grey eye on her. "It's never too late to discover God, Miss Adler. Or at least, that's what the doctor here is always trying to tell me."

"And he is quite right, I'm sure, but I'm infinitely more devastated by the fact it appears too late to discover any supper." Irene looked about her, clasping her hands. "Doctor, don't you have a housekeeper?"

"No," droned Watson, staring into his glass.

"You had one once," said Holmes with a sharp glance of surprise. "A Mrs Turner, I believe. She made the most dreadful toast."

"Mary always made the toast."

"Did I say toast? I meant coffee." Holmes cleared his throat a little. "Erm. Miss Adler, fix me another drink, won't you?"

"Certainly not, Sherlock. I'm not _married_ to you." Irene grinned at the irritated look on his face. "The doctor will oblige you however, I'm sure."

Watson smirked. "I'm not married to him either, Miss Adler."

"No? How truly extraordinary."

"Never mind," Holmes muttered, crossing to the liquor cabinet himself. "Listen, Watson old boy, you really must get a housekeeper again. I don't know why you let Mrs Turner go. It's always such a nuisance having to fix one's own meals. It's the only demmed reason I tolerate Mrs Hudson at all." He stopped. "You _have_ been fixing your own meals, haven't you?"

Watson gave him an amused look and said, "Of course I have, Holmes."

"You've lost weight, is all. A full seven pounds, old boy, if I am not entirely mistaken. She must have been gone – what, three or four weeks? A month of makeshift meals, my dear fellow. Really, I'm quite surprised at you. You must get someone else in at once."

"My lease is only until mid-August, Holmes. It does not seem worthwhile to employ a housekeeper for only one month."

"Mid-August?" Panic twitched itself over his face, then was gone. "That's awfully soon, old boy."

"Yes, it is."

Holmes frowned, turning the twice-emptied snifter over in his long fingers. Irene stared at it, thinking somehow that he was going to drop it, but he didn't. He put it down on the breakfast table.

"Well, I suppose it isn't _too_ soon, my dear Watson. It'll give you enough time to pack, in any case. Though how we'll fit all your new things into Baker Street, I can't imagine – Mrs Hudson will have a heart attack."

"I'm not going back to Baker Street, Holmes."

The frown deepened, but Irene could see Holmes had expected this. "Then where will you go?"

"Mary's brother has a place in the country; I will go and stay with him for a while."

"Mary's brother!" Holmes looked up, his eyes suddenly flashing. "You would rather stay with a man whom you hardly know, than return to your old rooms at Baker Street?"

"I need a change of air, Holmes."

"_My_ brother also has a place in the country. We could – "

"This is not about whose brother has a place in the country," Watson interrupted, almost impatiently. "This is about me needing to _get away_, Holmes. I need to _get away_. From everything. From every_one_."

"From me?"

"From _everyone_, Holmes."

"By which you mean me primarily, since you have no other intimate friends in London."

"By which I mean I need some time to think, _alone_, Holmes."

"You cannot go, doctor," rejoined Irene, feeling two sets of eyes immediately alight on her. She studied her face in the mirror over the mantel to avoid having to meet either one. "You cannot be so cruel as to leave me in town alone with Sherlock indefinitely. You know what we are like together. Without you here we'd tear each other to ribbons, and then if you ever decided to return to London you'd find the pair of us adorning some dowager's frock."

Watson smiled at her, but the resolution in his eyes didn't fade. "That would doubtless be a regrettable occurrence, Miss Adler, but – "

" – you would still permit it? That is not the conduct of a gentleman, you know – and after I thought we'd quite understood each other after our little talk in the hansom cab, too! No, really, doctor. You cannot go."

"It is already settled."

"Nothing is ever settled until the day it is done."

"I have written Mary's brother, and he has already written back; he expects me."

"There is nothing in this world more enjoyable, doctor, than doing what nobody expects you to do."

Watson sighed, getting up tiredly from his chair. Irene followed his progress across the room via the mirror, her brown eyes trying to read in his posture some sign of relenting, some tiny aspect of give. Holmes – still tucked next to the breakfast table – was trying repeatedly to light his pipe.

"London smothers me," said Watson at last from the window. "It is too... familiar, Miss Adler. Have you ever had that feeling? That everything is happening a little too... close?"

"You mean that everything is happening a little too _soon_," Irene pointed out, arching her brows.

Watson tipped his head in thought. "Yes, I suppose that's so."

"I had never thought you the type to run away, doctor."

The strong shoulders locked. "That is not the reason why I'm leaving town, Miss Adler."

"No? Perhaps I've misread your intentions, then. My apologies." Irene shrugged, turning back to Holmes. His questioning look tweaked a smile from her lips and she went to him as he made another attempt on his pipe. "Oh, Sherlock, you are a positive fright with matches. Didn't anyone ever tell you never to play with fire? Or, at least, never to do so while staring at Dr Watson? No? Well, you are being told now. You'll have the Brigade on us. Here, I'll do it for you."

The moment it was lit the detective took it out of his mouth, jabbing at the air with it to prove his point.

"Watson, old boy, you cannot leave next month. You have your practice. You cannot in good conscience abandon _that_, you know, even if you persist in abandoning _me_."

"I am not _abandoning_ you, Holmes. There's no need to be so theatrical."

"Then stay."

"I'm going, Holmes."

"Then let me come with you."

Watson closed his eyes in bottled frustration. "I'm going _alone_, Holmes, and that is an unalterable _fact_."

"It's not a fact, old boy, it's a probability. There is a distinct difference between the two, and as such, one should never state probabilities as facts, as in this instance if you were to relocate to the country I would undoubtedly have no choice but to follow you – "

"Holmes!"

"Sherlock, you must be more delicate than that," laughed Irene, though her eyes were slightly alarmed. "It takes a woman to handle these things properly. That is why we always wear such beautiful gloves. Just give the doctor and me a moment, won't you? And there's no need for that calculating expression; I shan't elope with him, I give you my word," and she snagged Watson's arm and pulled him towards the door. "I am merely going to tell him off. Charmingly, of course, like a lady should. Now doctor," as she closed the door firmly behind them; "you must not leave London. You must give me _your_ word."

"Miss Adler – "

"Sherlock needs you. He hasn't had a case in months."

"Whether Holmes takes on a case or not – "

"Don't you see what it means, doctor?" Irene caught his gaze, held it with an iron will. "Sherlock Holmes. Without a case. In London. Alone. If anything were to happen to him, you'd be miles away, far too away to help. Oh, don't give me that look, doctor; I know you too well. I read you like a Parisian pattern book, and those are made for the illiterate. No – even if you were away from London, doctor, you'd still worry about him; you know you would."

"He's thirty-two, Miss Adler. He can take care of himself."

Irene frowned. "I thought you had forgiven him."

"I have, Miss Adler; but this is... different."

For a moment, Irene Adler leaned back, said nothing. Studied Watson's face from under her lashes. From another room, the metallic clang of a clock striking twelve came through thick, piled on the carpet in rips and folds.

And then Irene pulled a breath together.

"You _are_ afraid, doctor," she said at last.

Watson jolted, and Irene didn't miss the sudden way his fingers tightened themselves into fists by his side. The blond head dipped a moment, before resurfacing completely wiped clean of emotion.

"I am not afraid, Miss Adler," and his voice was toneless and cool. "There is absolutely nothing for me to be afraid _of_."

"Oh, there are quite a few things, doctor. Guilt, for one. Rejection, for another. Consequence, conscience, and moral reproach – if you are not afraid of Society, then you are afraid of yourself. You haven't, perchance, forgotten what we spoke of in the cab, scarce an hour or so ago?"

"Of course not."

"Then take my last piece of advice, doctor – stay. You must. Surely, in your heart, you know that you must."

"I don't think I know anything for sure any more," and Watson looked away in a manner that made Irene's chest clench. A terrifying swatch of emotions warred over his face, one after another, darkening his blue eyes. "Ever since Mary passed away, Miss Adler, everything around me has been so confused, and I – "

"You must have loved her very much."

"Yes." A hard swallow, the pale line of his throat sharp and cold. "Yes. I did."

Irene leaned in, taking Watson's chin gently in one hand. He faced her reluctantly, still smarting a little over his loss of control; she didn't press him. She gave him a dazzling smile instead.

"There's no need to be afraid of what you feel, doctor." And then, at the startled look on his face, she lightened her tone. "One should never be afraid of what one feels. One should ever only be afraid of two things in this world – death, and an overdone _carne al ragù_."

A small scoff. "And which is the more bearable of the two, Miss Adler?"

"Oh, death, doctor; of that I am positively sure. At least, I've been told it is less pessimistic – you don't spend its entirety wishing you _were_ dead, you know, which is more than can be said of a badly-cooked meal."

Watson gave a half-hearted snort, though Irene saw that the shadow on his face had eased somewhat.

"You never talk sense, Miss Adler," he said after a while. "Sometimes I think you let your clever tongue run away with you."

"Provided it doesn't run away _without_ me, doctor, I am not overly concerned," she laughed back at him. "And provided _you_ don't run away either, and leave Sherlock here in London alone, I think I shall be quite content. There is no need to be afraid of what you might do," and her voice was low, unexpectedly gentle. "You are not defiling Mary's memory by feeling this way; but you _will_ be defiling Sherlock's devotion to you if you _don't_ acknowledge how you feel on the matter, and I _know_ how you feel, doctor. I see it too well."

The blue eyes wavered for a moment before breaking away. "Have I always been so easy to read?"

"No, of course not. You were much easier to read three years ago."

"That is some reassurance at least," said Watson, with something that half-resembled a smile.

"I should not think so, doctor. Men should leave mystery solely to the women – it is our right," said Irene, and she graced him with a roguish smirk. "And we do it so much better. But you _will_ stay, won't you? Promise me that you will. After all this effort I've gone to to make you stay, it would be a grave affront to my personal honour if you still persisted and went, you know."

Watson's smile faltered. "I – I can't promise that I will not go."

"But I see that you have not promised that you _will_ go either – which is enough for me, and should be enough for Sherlock, too. I shan't ask for more at present. I am satisfied."

And Irene Adler put her gloved hand back onto the door.

* * *

**A/N: She's not so much a matchmaker as a marriage counsellor, I suppose... **

**Part III is in the works; it's proving a little problematic, mainly due to the fact that Sherlock Holmes is a more formidable hurdle than Dr John Watson, and I'm trying to keep the pace as realistic as possible without dragging it on for too long. I should be able to finish it by next week.**

**(Should.)**

**I hope I handled Watson's hesitation well? Him and Holmes are as damnably stubborn as mules. Let me know in any case what you think. I didn't want to make this Chapter **_**too**_** serious, but it's difficult to pepper attempts at wit throughout something like this without making it farcical. God, I hope it's not farcical. It isn't, is it? :feels insecure:**

**Oh – and in answer to a PM I received – my version of Irene Adler is a mish-mash of the movie-verse and Oscar Wilde's Mrs Erlynne, Mrs Allonby, Lord Goring, and Mabel Chiltern. Hope that, as such, she's enjoyable? **

**In any case, please don't forget to review!**


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